


You're Sick, Detective

by LittleLalaith



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, At least... at first, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Gavin hates androids, Gavin is badly injured, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nines is sent to care for him, Strong medical themes, Teen for mentioned nudity in later chapters, and bad language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 21:13:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18351824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLalaith/pseuds/LittleLalaith
Summary: When Gavin is severely injured after a raid gone wrong, he finds himself unable to care for himself and let to the mercy of a nurse... an android nurse...Struggling with feelings of inadequacy, depression, and extreme frustration, Gavin lashes out at his android companion on a daily basis. But gradually, little by little, he learns to accept  help and grows a little fonder of the RK900 that's been sent to take care of him.Enemies to lovers, huge character growth for an aggressive Gavin and an RK900 who doesn't understand his emotions.Enjoy~





	You're Sick, Detective

The first thing that registered in Reed's brain as he awoke was pure and unfiltered agony. His head was pounding in waves that seemed to pulse from a needle-sharp epicenter behind his left eye; his right shoulder throbbed with a dull ache that faded to pins and needles from the elbow down; and he couldn't even begin to make sense of the sickening swell of discomfort that infected his lower torso. A broken groan forced its way out of his dry throat as he tried to move, sending out a fresh shockwave of pain. 

"Fuck..." he hissed weakly, forcing himself to lie still until the pain eased.

After a long minute, he eased his eyes open and squinted against the lamplight. He was in his own room; the heavy grey curtains had been drawn so he had no chance of working out what time of day it was, but the dim light of his bedside lamp cast its glow on the assortment of furnishings and decorations he'd collected over the years. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something seemed off. The room looked too... open, too clean. He frowned, his gaze shifting to the door, which had been left part-way open. The weight of his nervous disorientation settled on his chest, sending tendrils of gooseflesh over his arms. He always closed the door fully when he was settling in for the night (a habit from his college days when it was safest to lock your bedroom door to avoid permanent markers and shaved eyebrows) and he realised now that his usual pile of unironed laundry had been put away. Cold unease broke along his spine and splintered into the rest of his broken body.

_Someone else was in his house._

Had he let someone in? Had the hospital sent him home with a registered carer? He couldn't remember. He had been so hopped up on painkillers and morphine that he barely remembered being at the hospital at all; if it hadn't been for the plastic tag around his wrist, he might have thought the whole thing was a surreal dream.

He remembered going along to the raid on Sharpe Avenue: they had been on the tail of a child trafficking ring that was operating out of Detroit and they'd managed to pinpoint one of the main dealers to that address. Gavin had gotten a bad feeling when they stepped into the apartment complex, but he'd been too buzzed on the rush of shutting this case down to pay much attention to it. He realised now, a number of the apartment doors had been pushed to the frame of the doorway, but they weren't fully shut. Some of the occupants must have been keeping watch, preparing for an ambush.They hadn't realised their mistake until they burst into the empty apartment and found themselves trapped by gunfire from the corridor behind them. From that point on, the memories became simultaneously blurry and keenly focused. Tunnel-visioned, he guessed. He remembered pulling Miller over the back of the moth-eaten sofa and laying down suppressing fire at the doorway, but some of those assholes had ducked in and were flanking them to the left. He found that he couldn't remember what happened between that moment and the end of the firefight, but he remembered a splinter digging into his exposed ankle and the way his breath huffed against the kevlar collar, making the air around his mouth and nose too humid. He remembered the distinctive scream of a child... he was pretty sure that had been the catalyst for his moment of heroic idiocy. 

Gavin heard the scream, and he had stood up to try and take down the trafficker that was pulling a young girl along the corridor. Had he managed to hit the guy? He couldn't remember. He just remembered the force of a bullet tearing through the vest and sinking itself into his shoulder. There wasn't pain, not at first, just the force of something punching into him hard enough to knock him back. Then a second invisible fist had thrust itself into his stomach and he'd fallen. A pause as his mind worked through the fog of shock. And then the agony erupted through his nervous system in one sickening wave. 

Everything after that was a confusing stream of consciousness and blackness, red-lined pain and the sour taste of panic on his tongue. The dealers were packing much higher caliber weapons than they'd been prepared for, the vests weren't good enough to stop the rounds. At least, not much. They probably slowed the bullets enough that ... well, that Gavin had been able to wake up in his own bed instead of staying down and being laid out in a casket. The thought prickled over his skin, temporarily distracting him from the pain. 

So why wasn't he at a hospital? 

Looking down at his prone body, Gavin carefully adjusted his position and took inventory. He was shirtless, but his modesty was protected by the canvas of bandaging that covered his chest and stomach. The thick guaze patch just to the right of his bellybutton had been seeping and a blossom of red was settling into the material. The patch on his shoulder was cleaner but still showed a little staining; so he couldn't have been out of the hospital long enough for the wounds (presumably stitched) to scab over. But long enough that he needed a change of dressing. As he let his gaze rise from the wound on his shoulder, he noticed the unfamiliar shape at the side of his bed and frowned, taking a moment to recognise it as an IV drip. Ah fuck no. So he was apparently well enough to be sent home, but not well enough to be fully discharged. Then who had brought him home? Surely they would need to make sure that a nurse or someone was there to take care of him. For Christ's sake, he could barely stretch his legs out without setting off a new wave of agony through his stomach. 

That's when he remembered the door. Clearing his throat, Gavin had to gather up some strength before he could bring himself to shout. The realisation shook him a little - he must have been in pretty bad shape. 

"Hey!" he managed, the sound ricochetting through his migraine. 

He waited, listened and heard nothing. Just as he was summoning up the strength to call again, the door swung open slowly and a tall figure blocked out most of the light from the hallway. The outline looked familiar in a vague sort of way: perfect posture, neat hairline, slender but not too thin. When the figure stepped into the room, Gavin spotted the circling blue light on its temple and uttered an expletive before he could stop himself.

"Nope. Fuck no..." he growled weakly, resting his heavy head against the worn pillows. "Go and get a real nurse. I need someone to check me over."

His voice was thick and it crackled a little whenever he tried to raise the volume. Speaking left him too tired, and it did nothing to stop the progress of the tin-can that was swanning into his room. _His_ room. His house. Who the fuck let an android into his house?

"Hello Gavin. My name is Richard, I'm the RK900 sent by the Detroit Police Department - they thought it would be a gesture of good will to have me assigned to your care."

The android's voice floated over in a smooth baritone, his rhythm and eloquant pronounciations making it obvious that he wasn't human. Not really. Wait, the PD had sent this thing as a 'good will gesture'? What the hell was that supposed to mean, and who the hell would be stupid enough to send him an _android_ as a nice gesture? Everyone in the bullpen knew he hated these things. He wasn't exactly quiet about it and he'd had more than a few warnings from Fowler about his attitude towards Connor... maybe this was some kind of joke. It had to be.

"Very funny. Get a nurse," he demanded, feeling a little dizzy now. 

"I'm afraid that you've been discharged for assisted living, so there are no nurses on site. However, I have been programmed to administer basic medical care and can tend to your immediate needs. Your registered doctor will check in once a week to monitor your progress." 

Oh, ok. Now he got it. 

He'd died.

He'd died and gone to hell.


End file.
